


To Your Door

by brynnmck



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lee wakes to the familiar sound of Starbuck swearing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fabulous beta, [](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/profile)[**danceswithwords**](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/).

_I've been all around_  
This big and broken world  
I've been loved and I've been lost  
So many times before  
But all that midnight wonder  
And every jackknife turn  
Brought me nearer oh my love  
Nearer oh my love  
Nearer oh my love to your door  
\--Jeffrey Foucault, "Every New Leaf Over" 

 

Lee wakes to the familiar sound of Starbuck swearing.

He's been dead asleep, so by the time he wakes up enough to process what she's saying, all he gets is, "—you _doing_?"

He blinks, rubs his eyes. "You're really loud. I forgot how loud you are."

It’s just them in the room; they’re a little short on officers these days. She's standing next to the bunk, her hands on her hips, her hair still sweat-stuck to her neck from the CAP that just ended. And she's looking at him with a combination of exasperation, confusion, and a little leftover shock. "And did you forget that this is not, in fact, your rack?"

He rolls his head to the side, eyes his own bunk, smooth surface and hospital corners. "You weren't using it."

"Well, I'm gonna be, in about five minutes, so either get out or get ready for some really interesting rumors." She turns her back on him, crosses her arms in front of her to yank off her tanks. Their flight suits don't breathe, of course, since breathable fabric isn't exactly an asset if you're floating in space, and her pants are slung low on her hips; moisture glistens in the small of her back.

He looks away. _The rumors have already started_ , he thinks, but this is her ship and she probably knows better than he does.

"How was CAP?" he asks, focused on the scratched metal wall at the foot of the bunk.

"Fine," she replies, fabric-muffled. "Nothing to report, sir."

There's that emphasis on the last word that kind of pisses him off, and they're going to have a little discussion about that one of these days, but right now he's too tired to pursue it. She wanders back into his line of vision, the tanks and pants replaced by a Caprica Buccaneers T-shirt, and not much else. He raises an eyebrow.

"They suck."

"It was on sale," she sneers, and he grins; it’s been a long two years without her. She grins back, sits tentatively on the opposite end of the bunk, and Starbuck tentative is something he’s seen before, but he can count the number of times on one hand. They might talk about it someday, he thinks. In the meantime, they’re managing, in fits and starts—it’s amazing what the end of the world can do in terms of perspective.

“So what’s up?” She leans back against the wall, legs dangling over the edge of the bunk, and he gets lost for a second in the long, smooth lines of muscle and skin. He’s out of practice.

“Aren’t you going to shower?” he asks, wrinkling his nose, an old distraction technique.

She rolls her eyes. “If I shower, then sleep, I’ll just need to shower again after. It’s easier this way.”

He makes a show of squirming uncomfortably. “So do you do this a lot? ‘Cause if you do, these sheets have gotta be—”

“ _Mine_ ,” she interrupts, “and if you have a problem, you’re welcome to go back to your own damn bunk anytime.”

“Kara,” he says, fixing her with a sober look, “it’s my job as CAG to make sure morale stays up. And if you’re going around smelling like ass all the time, I really think—” but that’s as far as he gets, because then she’s shoving her foot in his face, and he’s struggling to push it away, and they’re both laughing, and by the time they stop wrestling, the last remnants of tension have drained away.

“So really,” she sighs finally, still panting a bit. “What’s with the musical bunks, Lee?” Her legs are stretched out next to his body now, his forearm draped over her shins.

He shrugs, puts his other arm underneath his head. “I needed to sleep. I crash in my rack, I get interrupted. I crash in your rack, close the curtain…” he lets it hang, then grins again. “Unless something’s changed, you wake up _mean_ , Starbuck.”

She smiles, looks down. “Nope. That hasn’t changed.”

He won’t tell her the rest of it, which is that her bunk smells like _her_ , like cigars and flying, home and happier times. His bunk still smells like the now-dead officer who had it before him.

It hadn’t been much of a contest.

She's picking nervously at her nails now, her head still bent, and it's one of the first quiet moments they've had since the end of the world. He suddenly wants to ask her what _has_ changed, what she’s been doing these past two years, if she still loves apples, if his father ever asked about him. But he's seen the crease on the picture in her locker—he's not going to push his luck.

The silence stretches, grows awkward. His eyes wander; he notices her toenails are neatly shaped, covered in clear polish, but he can see grease underneath, and it makes him smile.

She pulls her legs out from underneath his arm abruptly, grabs the upper bunk and swings to her feet. "You OK?" he asks, startled.

"Well," and she starts digging in her locker again, "it's been brought to my attention that my personal grooming habits may be endangering the ship."

"Kara—"

But when she comes out from behind the locker door, wrapped in a towel, she doesn't look annoyed or angry. "You're off duty till 1600, right?"

And he's not sure why she knows his schedule, but, "Yeah."

She shrugs, trying just a little too hard to be nonchalant. "So sleep. I'll go grab a shower, get some chow, wake you up when I get back."

"What's the catch?" he asks suspiciously, because the Starbuck he remembers was never this nice.

"I didn't say _how_ I was going to wake you up," she points out, grinning wickedly, but there's something in her eyes that makes him wonder if maybe she's missed him, too.

So he thanks her the best way he knows how, the way he thinks she'll understand. "I'm the CAG," he starts, in the most pompous tone he can muster, "and I would think you'd want to—"

"Aw, crap," she groans, "now I really _am_ going to have to come up with something to do to you." He laughs, and she yanks the curtains shut; he hears her voice through the fabric. "Go to sleep, mighty CAG, and try not to get your mighty drool on my pillow."

"You're following my orders right now, you know," he reminds her, hearing her footsteps moving toward the door.

"Don't get used to it," is all she says, and then the hatch clangs shut.

He falls asleep smiling.


End file.
